


The Reality Of A Dream

by ElenCelebrindal



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: First Kiss, Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Minor Original Character(s), one is a plot device and the other only mentioned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:07:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23448256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElenCelebrindal/pseuds/ElenCelebrindal
Summary: Who can say with certainty to be awake? How can reality be discerned, if it doesn’t hesitate to confuse itself with the illusions gave by dreams? What if our whole life is nothing, if not a long, uninterrupted dream? What if everything we see, taste, touch, feel, is nothing more than a mere illusion created by our mind to deceive our senses?No one will probably ever know.
Relationships: Beleg Cúthalion/Mablung of Doriath
Kudos: 4





	The Reality Of A Dream

**Author's Note:**

> This is an adaptation and translation of a very old work, coming straight from 2015.   
> I originally wrote this in Italian, but never published it, as the pairing of the story is kind of a bizarre one for me.   
> I don't remember exactly why I even wrote this, too much time has passed for that, but I found it by accident and decided "hey, why not, this is not half bad". 
> 
> So I fixed it and translated it as best as I could. Keep in mind, I am not a native speaker, and if this seems way too formal or weird I apologize. Though, after reading the Silmarillion in English, I think this is not even remotely formal enough. 
> 
> I hope you will enjoy!

Who can say with certainty to be awake? How can reality be discerned, if it doesn’t hesitate to confuse itself with the illusions gave by dreams? What if our whole life is nothing, if not a long, uninterrupted dream? What if everything we see, taste, touch, feel, is nothing more than a mere illusion created by our mind to deceive our senses?

In the quiet domain of Elu Thingol no one dared asking such questions, merely living as they always did, limiting themselves to taste the sour and sweet wine, the delicacy of their meals.   
The Elves contended themselves to see, no, to observe with attentive and distracted eyes the great works created by elven hands or by higher thoughts; to hear the countless sound of their lively forest, to listen and dance to sweet voices of minstrels and harmonious notes of graceful instruments; to touch and feel any material, from the softest fabric to solid rock.

Nobody, lost in a seemingly safe peace, exposed philosophical questions, save for one: a single Elf, celebrated among the numerous people of Doriath, renowned for his unending courage and dexterity. Beleg was is name, called Cúthalion for his innate ability to hold and draw a bow.   
Fair and beautiful despite the need to fight built deeply into his form, crystalline eyes and long, silky hair of a silvery blond color, never as dazzling as Galadriel’s own but nonetheless unique. To mark his title of Chief and Captain, only a fine crown adorned by nothing and a four-pointed star-shaped brooch on his chest, body covered with practical clothes rather than pretentious fabrics.   
His black yew-wood bow, the mighty Belthronding, rested unused on his back, alongside his faithful arrow Dailir, waiting in silence to slay another foe.

He was keeping himself busy, carefully fixing the white feathers of his other arrows, but all the same he was alert, body ready to sprint, ears opened as best as he could as to perceive even the slightest rustling of leaves.  
Crouching in perfect balance on a high branch of the trees closest to the border, he had been standing guard for hours, showing no signs of fatigue in the body, without ever stop thinking his mind out, wearing it out in an attempt to give answers to questions no one wanted to sing.

A sudden noise, and the course of his thoughts abruptly stopped. The hand ran quickly to his bow and one arrow was nocked with no hesitation or trace of error; in less than a breath, the sturdy rope was stretched to the spasm, the feathered end of the arrow shaft tickled Beleg’s cheek as its tip pointed downwards.

«”Conquer yourself, not the world”, are the wise words of the Valar. Still the same questions are troubling your mind, Beleg, my friend?».  
Hair dark like the bark of a tree and eyes as light as the day, Mablung watched with a smile curling his lips how quickly the bow abandoned its tension, how the arrow stopped being a threatening glare. Beleg, dearest friend of his, returned Belthronding behind his back with a not so subtle scoff.  
«Maybe you should have a break, bring your thoughts to a halt and gift yourself a moment of peace».

«Aside from our thoughts, there is nothing really in our power, Mablung», the Elf retorted, storing the unused arrow away. «Nothing we can be really sure of, anyway. Our senses are deceptive, reality could not be what we see, but merely a mirror of what really exists. Your words are telling me to stop the only certainty of this world, yet I desire the opposite».  
With agility equal to that of a feline, Beleg slid off the branch that had been his shelter for many hours and landed softly on his toes, in front of his friend and other Captain.   
Oh so different from him, with his stern eyes and deadly weapons, knife and spear far from the swift grace of a bow.   
«Maybe this questions will keep swirling like bad winds in my mind, or maybe they will finally stop their rampage is I expose them to someone who has enough patience to listen. Though, I seen no reason to upset others. I am living my peace as I wish to, you should not worry about me».

He shook his head, unbraided hair caressing his shoulders like a gentle gust of wind, and huffed out an understanding smile: «I was already aware of the answer you would have presented me with, but trying is never a waste of energy», Mablung said. Then, his gaze became more serious: «Our lord Thingol wishes to confer with his captain. He has been waiting your usual report for a longer time than normal».  
A tinge of worry in the back of his mind, Mablung crossed his arms and leaned against the trunk of the nearest tree: «Rare are the delays in your diligent work, Beleg», he told him, raising a dark eyebrow. «You better hurry».   
The reproachful tone hidden in his voice was not as humorless as it might have appeared, but he still watched his friend disappear between leafy trees with a weird look in his eyes.   
Because, indeed, something somber was surely weighing Beleg down. But, as always, he wouldn’t tell.

Beleg reached the bridge above the Esgalduin as quickly as his legs allowed him, flying through trees ad leaves and flowers, but slowed down as he crossed it. Roaring notes rushed beneath his feeth, the water proud and unstoppable in Ulmo’s power.   
He gracefully stepped aside to let a young Elf-maiden pass, and crossed the great portals of Menegroth; he thanked silently the two warrior who kept them open, heads held high and spears shining in their hands clad in armor.

When he reached the majestic throne room, at the royal seats of his sovereigns, Beleg bent one knee and curved his back, right hand open on his heart as a deep sign of respect, and head bowed as a sign of loyalty, waiting for the king’s clear and strong voice in quietness.   
Thingol was a fair king, honorable to the eyes of who lived under his reign, but at the same time intimidating, glowing with loving authority. He wouldn’t dare defy him, in those days.

«You have come swiftly, my faithful captain, however your delay is not little. What, I ask of you, caused your carelessness?», was Thingol’s question, asked in a low voice, firm and authoritarian.  
No rush ruled his words, however, and as the hand belonging to his wife tightened around his own, he softened his tone: «Rare is your negligence, Beleg. And inexistent your lack of care. Should I have any reason to worry about my best and most loyal warrior?».

The captain raised his head, so as to meet the king’s austere gaze, and nodded solemnly: «I am afraid I have to answer that there is something troubling me, my king, and that this nuisance is also the cause of my unwise delay, but there is no reason to worry», he replied, weighing each word with care before speaking. With Beleriand already an upsetting issue, disquieting his sovereign was nothing but an error, a mistake to be made.   
So he made himself clear, before raising more concerns: «Only continuous thoughts and questions, incessantly plaguing my mind, have cause my vastly foolish inattention. I would ask for forgiveness, if my king deems it fair, as my lack of report on the current situation could have brought ill problems».

Luckily, his king was not only wise, but also merciful. Only a gesture of Thingol’s hand was necessary, and Beleg promptly returned to his feet, hands clasped behind his back as he reported what his king needed to know: «No sightings of foes, and no unexpected movements to be recorded outside the Girdle, according to what I have been informed by my guardians and my eyes. Everything seems calm», Beleg dutifully said, pleased to take in ho the sovereign’s sever expression softened upon learning such good news.

«This puts my mind at ease, even if for a moment», Thingol sighed, though he knew nothing was to take for granted. Peace was a hardly existing luxury, as of the Age they were living in, with so many battles and so much death infecting Beleriand all around.   
«You can go, you if you so wish. Although I have curiosity in learning what thoughts upset your mind to such an extent, I prefer not to ask questions you have no desire of answering», he then added, lightly glancing at his side. Melian, in all her shining grace, said nothing but softly smiled, and he continued: «I can, however, give you a small advice, and my hope is that you will follow it. Do not lock yourself in your mind. Speak aloud. Expose what worries you. You will never be able to conquer your doubts and overcome them if you do not search for a solution in others».

It was a common predicament, rather amusing in so many wrong ways, and to lose a faithful warrior to his doubts was no desire of his.   
«I have nothing more to spare. May your watch be safe, and your arms strong», he concluded, dismissing the Elf with a nod.

Beleg bowed twice, once for the king and once for the queen, and took a few steps backwards before turning his back on them, only when at a respectful distance for doing so.   
Menegroth was absolutely enormous, so much so that its very name could be translated as “Thousand Caves”, but Beleg lived so many hours and days in it that he had memorized every turn, every corridor, every room that made a magnificent and regal home.   
Consequently, Beleg couldn’t describe his own surprise when, as he headed towards the armory to retrieve materials suitable for the construction of more arrows, he passed a door never seen before.

The Elf frowned, perplexed; he had not walked down that particular corridor for quite some time, but he was sure he would have known if something knew was being added to the palace.   
Circumspectly looking around, Beleg tried to open the mysterious door, obtaining only the knowledge of it being locked. Which led Beleg to wonder why it was locked.

Ultimately, hearing the faint noise of approaching footsteps, he abandoned the intent to pry open the door and walked away, his mind already distracted and returned to unsolvable questions.   
When the captain crossed the threshold, the armory seemed deserted so much silence pervaded it, however, upon descending many stairs, Beleg noticed a female figure wandering around wooden tables and weapon racks holding swords and bows and shield.  
She was familiar to Beleg’s eyes, and he greeted her as soon as he understood who she was: «Elanessë!», he addressed her, politely. «I was not expecting to meet our noble queen’s handmaid here».

She turned at the voice, and answered the slight bow with another in the same manner: «Captain Beleg», she greeted him. «I am sorry if my presence startled you. I understand it might seem out of place, given my role in Menegroth».  
The Elf replied with a gentle shrug, already venturing off in search of whatever he needed, but Elanessë stopped him in his track: «Actually – she bought his attention I was hoping for someone to come here, for I am in need of help».   
She hoped Beleg would be willing to humor her for a little while, at least, and was delighted in noticing how his eyebrows quirked up in curiosity: «As you know, in a few days a great feast will take place in honor of the starts, our beloved, but it will also be a day dedicated to lovers», was the quick explanation. «It is a precious opportunity, and I would be able to choose a suitable gift for my dearly loved Farahad. Unfortunately, I am no sword-maiden, and I am unlearned to this kind of crafts».

Beleg, listening attentively, maneuvered between furniture and weapons and stopped in front of her, placing his hands on the smooth wooden table dividing them: «Farahad… he is the valiant Elf who has just joined the ranks under my command», he remarked, pondering.   
A noble Elf, younger than Beleg himself but no less brave and determined, skilled in the art of the sword but lacking in the mastery of a bow.   
He didn’t know Farahad had a significant other, but then again, he never asked.

Elanessë nodded: «I wanted to gift him a weapon worthy of his just received title, but is a difficult decision for me to male, for I never had the audacity of wielding a weapon in my hand», was the shy reply.   
She brushed aside an annoying lock of dark hair, tossing it behind her shoulder, and sighed: «I know him more than anything, but all this? It is foreign to me, beyond my imagination. I am but a servant of queen Melian, nor made for battle».

He wondered about for a few moments, taking his time, then straightened his back with resolution: «Here is a large amount of weapons, free to use and free to keep, and as such I understand your struggle. Gladly, I can help by telling you he prefers a sword to a bow, and a knife to a spear».  
Followed by Melian’d handmaid, he went around the table and examined carefully a small handful of weapons, wisely contemplating which one would fit the warrior Farahad was.

Though, after a while he turned to the Elf-maiden at his side, plentiful questions in his eyes: «I know too little about him to choose alone. His fighting style makes me think of a weapon not too long or short, double-edged and fairly thin, but I am no expert of what he truly liked, and there are too many options for me to help you adequately», he pointed out.   
Elaborate or simple, noble or common looking, green, or red, or blue. Beleg couldn’t place his hand on anything.   
«I need you to tell me something that appropriately represents him», he finally said, turning his gaze on Elanessë again.   
He didn’t mind the interruption; rather, he welcomed it. Helping out was a honor, and diverting his thoughts from dangerous places a relief.

«Farahad can only be described as a free spirit, impetuous but also kind. He loves looking at the trees, at the sky, at plants and flowers, so much that he often lives outside of Menegroth. He is like a ray of sun, only obscured when clouds come by».   
She pushed aside a chair, careful not to make it scrape the floor, and sat down with her hands intertwined on her lap: «This might not be as helpful as you wished it to be, but I don’t have another way to describe him».

«It is more than enough», Beleg reassured her, immediately approaching one of the racks rarely reached by the hands of Doriath’s warriors. It housed some of the most beautiful and lethal weapon forged by the tireless hands of Sindarin blacksmiths, though too few in the forest wielded pretty blades.   
He glanced over each of those precious swords and knives, caring little about bows and spears, before grabbing the perfect one: an elegant sword, hilt of white and silver wood and chiseled so meticulously as to obtain an effect of water drops, blade slightly curved, made of pale metal and so thin it gave the impression of being able to break at any moment.   
In spite of that, it would have been impossible to break it, if not by a greater force than what firstly created it.

Its scabbard was no different, finely decorated with silver engraving, and Beleg hid the blade in it before handing both to Elanessë: «I can only recommend this to you, my lady. I cannot chose anything else, for I am not able to», he said.

She took the sword with a radiant smile: «There is no need to choose anything else, captain. This is already a better gift than I myself had hoped for. My honest thanks may not be enough to show how grateful I am».

«My pleasure helping you», simply replied Beleg with a shrug, already distracted by a new search. Materials to make a couple arrows, scattered throughout the place as the armory was certainly no neatly kept forge.

At the foot of the stairs, a sudden thought made Elanessë stop in her tracks, and she turned around: «Say, Beleg… do you have someone to share the joy of the feast with?», she asked, seized by sudden curiosity.

The Elf grazed a metal arrow-head with delicate fingers, not bothering to raise his eyes: «I am not sure if I have a right answer for that question», he sighed.   
Or, better yet, he did not know if he wanted to have a right answer.

In truth, he would have liked to spend the feast of lovers alongside a particular person, and for months now he had been trying to gather enough courage to uncover his feelings toward him, but the fabric of Arda itself seemed contrary to that prospect.   
Always, when he finally had those words ready on his tongue, someone interrupted him, or something prevented him from talking. And Beleg, once lost his spark of braveness, could do nothing but raise a quick excuse and go his way.

«I would love to have someone, but… I am very much afraid he does not love me», he absent-mindedly added, not knowing a real reason why.   
He had never, except in rarest cases, told something about himself to others. Doing so seemed to Beleg nothing but irrefutable proof of having reached a breaking point.  
«I… I cannot talk to him», his voice betrayed him at last, trembling with veiled pain.

Elanessë smiled, if only a bit sadly: «It is always difficult to open your heart for someone», she reassured him. «We have complicated bonds made by love, after all, and they are not to be underestimated. But it my advice to not give up yourself, and even if you do not find enough courage to speak aloud, find a gift for the person you would like to be loved by».  
She did not know how appropriate such guidance was, given she was but a handmaid and he a valiant warrior, but assistance was given nonetheless, if only as thanks for his kind help: «I deeply understand what you might be feeling, as I also have gone through this uncertainty. But – she replied to herself – you will overcome this obstacle. Beleg, I have never met an Elf so strong, courageous and determined. I might not know you, but no words I have ever spoken were this much true».

Then, the queen’s handmaid gave him a polite salute and left Beleg alone, not wanting to disturb his peace even further with her presence.

«I believe them», Beleg replied, to an empty room.

He fidgeted with wood, metal and feathers for a while, fabricating a bunch of new arrows, and with methodical care he placed them one by one in their quiver. He could have asked a fletcher to do such a task for him, but Beleg preferred making his own arrows, as only he knew the many secrets of his faithful bow.   
With nothing more to keep his hands occupied, the Elf leaned back in the chair he sat down on and arched his head towards the ceiling.  
He wished for wood and stone to be the night sky, for the stars always seemed to calm his inner turmoil, but he could not bring himself to get up and out. He was thinking too hard, too much, about everything and nothing and everyone and no one.

«What should I do, Mablung?», he whispered to himself, tears welling up in his clear eyes but never falling. «How am I ever going to tell you that I love you?».

“Just do it», thought the person who was being secretly addressed, spying through an half-open door. “Just say those words out loud, and I will love you until days’ ending”.   
Distraught, the dark haired captain shook his head and turned his back to the armory, wanting nothing but to leave Menegroth’s caves, to run away from unreasonable rejection. He did not mean to spy on Beleg, as he did not know he was there, but he did it even so. And he suddenly wished to know nothing of what he had just learned, if only to make his heart a little lighter.

As he ran away, out into the open, he had only one thought; Beleg confused him, with his kind words, and his fair behavior, and his beautiful appearance that outshone even the brightest among their kin. He was feeling anger, and denial, and disillusionment, too many emotions he never would have thought to experience.   
More than that, he seemed unable to remember all kinds of logical reasoning, and only as he found himself outside, far from Menegroth and under a protective hood of leafy branches, did he remember how less courage he himself lacked.   
For he had feelings for Beleg, romantic all the same, but never told them.

Weighed down by such an abrupt revelation, Mablung dropped on the ground and sat on soft grass and fallen leaves, fabric rustling against the bark of a tree as he rested his back against it.  
He now knew Beleg felt love towards him, never showed but unquestionably there, but it was still a faint hope; taking the right step, forward and not backwards, became for the Elf even more difficult in knowledge.

He was too afraid to end their distance, scared of talking too quickly and too sharply, thus making an irreparable mistake.   
Beleg was a complex being, filled with pride and kindness and caring emotions, and nothing but a wrong step would have made him crumble, as he was also weak and tired in his strength. What to do, then? He wanted Beleg to speak up, to make the first move, but he was as afraid as him.   
Were they fated to an eternal impasse, unable to share their minds and form a bond?

So deeply Mablung was in thought, he paid no attention the a slight sound of footsteps approaching, if not when the intruder spoke, and suddenly aware he jumped to his feet, for it was no one but Thingol before him.

«It has already happened, for me to lay my eyes on a troubled captain of my realm», the king gravely spoke. «And I cannot help but wonder, what is it that disturbs such wonderful minds».

«My king, Thingol!», Mablung could not help but exclaim, bowing as to show deep respect. «I… I did not expect to meet you outside of Menegroth, at this late time of the day».   
He sensed the king’s clear eyes on him, examining him so deep it almost reached his fëa, but he dared not raise his head to meet his scrutinizing gaze without permission.   
Though, as he enlightened himself, he was just afraid to see the disappointed look that surely lingered in Thingol’s eyes.

«If this is regarding you and Beleg…».

«There is nothing between us!», Mablung unexpectedly interrupted him, lifting his head as swiftly as he wielded a sword.   
He realized the nature of his act soon after, looking into the shocked expression of his sovereign, and fell to his knees with both hands on his chest: «Forgive me, my king, I… I do not know what came of me» he pleaded, horrified by his disrespectful and foul exploit.

Sighing deeply, as he understood the grieving chaos in his captain’s heart and mind, Thingol merely placed a hand over his head and made him lift it, a friendly gesture to comfort him: «Do not ask for forgiveness I do not need to give you, Mablung», he set his fears at rest. «I will not show anger towards uncertainty and worry».  
Following a nod of Thingol’s head, the Elf slumped on the ground straightened his back and simply sat down where he was before, cross-legged amid emerald grass. He waited for him to feel once again at ease, and then barely smiled: «You must not fear my judgment, for no Elf or Elf-maiden should feel trapped by their own feelings. Though, it might seem hypocrisy to you, as I am the one telling you as much».

Mablung shook his head, lightly but noticeably, and smiled a gloomy smile: «It is no judgment that I fear, my king. I know our mind is open, very much so towards meaningful love».   
Still guilty of having lashed out at his own king, the captain refused to look up into his eyes, despite the comforting sensation radiating off of him. But it was true, for he did not fear what others might say, but something else entirely.   
And he told his king so: «We are two war-driven warriors. Beleg and I thrive in battle, in the singing of the sword and the swiftness of the bow. What we are, what we do, what we yearn for… I fear of the merciless death that will divide us before time. I fear of death breaking our bond and shatter our fëa. For if this is not a dream, were it to come true, it would hastily become a nightmare. As such, I am afraid to give my heart to him».

Heavy words, the ones Mablung spoke, but overflowing with truth. If Beleg was killed as they were bond in marriage, the sorrow would be too demanding for who was fated to stay behind. On the other hand, if Mablung was to die, he did not wish for Beleg to feel his heartbeat end and his fëa being summoned far away.   
«I do not think these are the same concerns troubling Beleg’s mind, as his interests travel far and wide, but they certainly are tainting mine».

Unpredictably, Thingol sighed again and sat down beside his captain, for once putting aside his royal title, an act that harshly startled him.  
Too see a king, and a king very much like Elu Thingol, forget his crown so easily was no game to be played. And so he smiled, comfortingly: «If you let this fear rule your heart, happiness will never come your way. if you love him, let it be. Let that love flourish and live», he told him, an ancient Elf who oh so much knew about love.   
So many years, he stood looking at Melian, bewitched by her unending beauty of hröa and fëa.

He shook his head, more violently this time, so much that is hair flew in all directions: «I cannot do it. I cannot… not be terrified», was what he replied, on the verge of much needed tears. «I love him, so much I showed all these feelings away as to not feel hurt, but I cannot speak openly with him. Not even now, knowing he loves me back with equal intensity».   
A laugh, more like a pained sigh, escaped his lips as looked up to the sky: «I have enough courage to charge first in battle, to wield my sword and slice through flesh and bones, and still I am but a coward when it comes to say such simple words».

Realization, knowledge, fear, uncertainty… too many emotions all at once, crashing upon him like a roaring waterfall. Mablung hid his face behind both hands, once again slumped in on himself. How pathetic he must be looking, weak and powerless and so close to his own king.

It was not harsh words that Thingol sent his way, however. A sorrow so inexplicable was rare among the Firstborns, after all, so his voice remained calm, his tone a soothing one: «Those simple words, as you described them, hide unending power. It takes more courage to say “I love you” that to face a thousand enemies. You are no coward, my faithful captain, for a coward would not fear so intensely for the one he loves».   
All his words spoken, the king got to his feet and shook away those leaves that became entangled with his jewels and trapped between heavy fabric folds. The warrior before his eyes was still a weeping one, if only on the inside, but he had no more comfort to spare.   
Thus, he offered nothing else but his own hope for them, and walked away, towards the gates of his home.

Left alone, Mablung unsheathed the long knife that served him so well in battle, and turned the weapon over in his hands, over and over again, mind completely lost in the haze of indecision.   
The Mereth Nuin Giliath was going to happen soon, and with the Feast of Starlight would come what was now known as the Feast of Lovers; maybe, if he was to gather enough courage…   
Beleg was almost certain on his same page of thoughts, but what if he never found the strength to do it? Mablung combed a hand through his hair, breathing harshly though his nose, not knowing how to act. Was he to convince his mind to stay at ease, and whisper those devoted words to Beleg? Or was he to wait in silence, for Beleg would be the one drawing bravery to himself?

He was so absorbed in those torrential thoughts he paid no mind nor noticed the shining pair of eyes peering at him from a distance.

The silvery rays of the moon spread soft and delicate, like a blanket of liquid light covering the entire forest, each leaf, each tree drowned in sparkling bright white. Thin blades of grass danced quietly in the gentle night breeze, and the loth-uin-ithil, the flowers of the moon, almost shone thanks to their pure whiteness.   
Happy and delighted, many Elves dressed in white and silver and adorned in shining jewels roamed around, singing and dancing, exchanging gifts, hugs, sweet kisses, all drenched in moonlight under a starry roof.   
All were serene.

All, except two.

Beleg, dressed in simple garments as white as freshly fallen snow, sat alone on a grey rock, his back abandoned against the truck of one of Doriath’s talles trees; he turned in his fingers and fidgeted with the gift he dared take with him, the gears in his mind constantly overworking.   
Too afraid to approach his – not so – mysterious love, too hopeful to get on his feet and merely celebrate alongside others of his kin the Feast of Starlight.

The gift was nothing special, but he knew Mablung had nothing of such craft: a fine crown made of polished white gold, a circlet forged by entwining strands of metal so thin as to resemble hair, adorned on the front by tiny gems.  
Nothing that would resemble the royal crown on Thingol’s head, or even the iron circlet worn by Maedhros, but no less beautiful.

Twice he had already watched at the Elf he so desired walked barefoot through snowy flowers and dancing grass, but only from a distance, for Mablung also held something in his hands. Maybe a gift for someone else, preventing him from facing the captain.   
He feared too much, for if Mabung intended the gift to not be for him, Beleg would have cried his life away.   
«How will I ever get close to you?», he asked, inadvertently out loud. «I do not know if you love me back, for If you do not, I will not endure it».

«Oh, but I love you, so much so that I cannot bring myself to believe it», Mablung replied, voice low enough as to avoid Beleg hearing him.   
Hidden behind a tree, he gazed and listened attentively to the Elf he eagerly wanted to approach, but his feet were heavy and burdened with shyness. There was nothing more he wanted, by that time, than nullify the short distance painfully separating him from Beleg, but his body refused to cooperate.

The reason he knew. Fear for what was yet to come, the unknown future of a never-ending war. He spent the past few days mulling over his emotions, pondering his feelings, and there have been only one conclusion: he was desperately, hopelessly in love.   
So it was only their upcoming life stopping him from making that important step.

In his hand, as if reminding him, the velvety box containing the gift for Beleg, a small jewel that was as precious as his love for him, skillfully crafted only days before.   
Trying to tuck away his worry, Mablung tried and concentrated only on Beleg, leaving out everything else: the sounds of the forest vanished, neither chirping of nocturnal birds or gusts of wind reached his ears; all those beautiful colors, greens and browns and blues, blurred in silver by moonlight, became but a memory; the crunching of leaves and the touch of soft grass under his feet was no more.  
Everything gave way to nothing but the Elf before him, haloed by white light reflected by the fairness of his hair.

It all faded into inconsistency, and Mablung finally found the courage to step forward.

His gaze was steady, fixated on the reflective brightness of clear jewels embedded in white metal, and he faintly sensed footsteps approaching him, quiet and maybe timid. His heart skipped a beat when, slowly, he raised his head and met eyes lighter in color than his own, pools of gleaming grey.  
«Mablung…», he called him, whispering, so softly that his voice resembled the shy breath of the wind.

The noble warrior shone with a light even more beautiful than that of Ithil, slender body wrapped in long, flowing robes embroidered with silver threads, silky fabric enveloping him in harmonious folds. Even his hair, usually kept wild and free, were lined with silver and white, in the form of graceful ribbons tied into elegant braids.   
Only a couple of wavy locks fell free on his shoulders, as if to outline his pale face.

He was beautiful, more so than usual. So different from his warrior self, clad in hunting clothes and wielding knife and spear.   
Something stirred inside Beleg, and a soft, welcomed warmth spread throughout his body when Mablung gave him a hesitant smile, sweeter than those they usually exchanged. It made the corners of his lips curve slightly upwards.  
«I… I am…», he tried, a sudden lump in his throat stopping his words from coming. Beleg wanted to say so many words, speak so many praises, but he was no less shy than the Elf in front of him.

In an effort to calm his roaring anxiety, Beleg swallowed dry and took a deep breath, no long before trying again: «Listen, I… I do not know if… oh, forget it!», he finally exclaimed, in a not so graceful manner, and showed the crown into Malung’s hands.  
He was irritated at his own clumsiness, so better now than never: «It is not much, I know, and I may seem a fool, but… this is for you», he said, not daring to look up into his eyes.

His face was on fire, cheeks flaming in embarrassment and ears blushing red: «Happy Feast of Lovers, Mablung».

Mablung took the crown with trembling hands, observing the finesse of its details, the accuracy of its sinuous shapes, the skill with which each individual gem had been set in gold. It was gorgeous, all of it, and with care he lifted it and put it on his hair.  
As he expected, it fit perfectly, as the circlet had been made for him. Had he not been thinking Beleg could have misinterpreted, Mablung would have cried his joy with many tears.   
Though, the feast was not for him only.

«I think it is my turn, now», he so said, showing Beleg the little box he had hidden beneath the folds of his robes. «It may seem too much, but… I have been wanting this for too long. For more than I himself am able to imagine».  
Forcing his body to stop the tremor in his fingers, Mablung opened the velvety box and showed its contents to Beleg, who sighed in surprise and brought a hand to his face, cold grey eyes burning with happiness and disbelief at the same time.

A pair of silver rings, plain and simple but much more than that. They meant betrothal, in elvish culture. They meant love, and desire to be together.   
Normally, the rings would have been exchanged at a meeting of their houses, but neither Beleg nor Mablung had families behind them, and they were both of age. Not that they needed the rings, for a marriage could be done only exchanging blessings, but he wanted Beleg to have that reminder. To carry his presence with him in more ways than a bond.

«I love you, Beleg», he admitted. «There are many things I am not certain of. I do not know the future, not the outcome of this ill-fated war, but this? I know my love for you is real. I will understand if this seems rushed to you, for I have too strong of a romantic feeling towards you, but…».   
He paused, took a deep breath, and looked Beleg straight in the eyes: «Will you marry me?».

If he answered yes, they would be betrothed. They would marry after a year, if war times let them.   
Beleg had to use all his self-control as not to start crying with joy: «How could I even think about saying no? Of course I will marry you!», he almost yelled, jumping up in a way more mannish than elvish. «I too am in love with you, Mablung».  
A long awaited confession, met by shimmering eyes and a gleeful smile.

He stared at the rings, resting on ruffled fabric in their box, and drew Mablung in their first, sweet embrace: «I was so afraid», he came clean to the Elf. «Afraid of not being reciprocated».  
His words drowned into soft fabric, as Beleg hid his face in the crook of Mablung’s neck, and he breathed in a scent of trees, of dirt, of flowers.   
For so long he had dreamed of that moment, and he was still afraid of the ambiguous existence of reality, but letting go was not in his intentions.

Unaware of the turmoil in Beleg’s mind, Mablung only held him close: «I was afraid as well», he whispered in response, petting fair strands of hair.«But someone encourage me not to give up, and he was right», he added, and shyly leaned in for a kiss. A first.   
A kiss he got after a slight but noticeable moment of hesitation, and that was both sweet and bitter.   
The Elf frowned, clearly oblivious to something, and loosened their embrace: «Beleg? Is there something wrong?».

Was it real, or was it a dream? Was it really worth living in a fake reality, if that was the case? He wanted him, yearned for him, but…  
The light-haired Elf moved away and kept his gaze down, unmoved, and stared at grass and dirt under his feet. An incessant whirlwind of thoughts kidnapped him, and he couldn’t help but sigh: «I fear for this to be nothing but a dream. A mere desire fulfilled in the unconscious of one night».  
Beleg kicked at some fallen leaves, rubbed his face, not knowing what to do: «My feelings tell me this is real, by my mind keeps having questions. Nobody can really know if we are living in reality, or walking in a dream. I am terrified of waking up», he told him, saddened.

So those were the troubles in his mind, Mablung finally realized. None of the Firstborns ever asked those questions, but Beleg did. He, a warrior and not a scholar, had been brave enough to keep questioning himself and his surroundings.   
The captain softened his gaze and came within reach of his love, extending out his arms, and smiled contentedly when Beleg accepted that closeness: «Do you not want to live this life? To live in happiness? If this is merely a fragment of your imagination, you would merely forget it. if this is your reality, you would live it fully, with love and care and tenderness», he softly said to him, and to him only.

Gradually, Beleg’s worry subsided into something less aggressive.   
So what if that was but a dream, fabricated by unspoken longing? He was living it, and until the end Beleg was not going to give him up.   
He returned the hug with far more energy and crashed their lips together, sealing their betrothal with no need for words.

The sky above them shimmered with stars, the kindest gift of an even kinder Valië, and they did not move from under it.   
The Feast of Starlight moved on, as lovers and spouses retreated into the privacy of their homes, but Beleg and Mablung stayed there, surrounded by moonlight and wind. Stayed there, and spoke their love to Beleriand without the need of words.

**Author's Note:**

> Open ending.   
> You can decide by yourself if this was only a dream, or if it happened for real.  
> The original draft of this story actually had an ending that explained everything, but I feel like it's better if I leave interpretation to the reader. 
> 
> Thinking back, I might have based this on something I was studying for philosophy...
> 
> Oh, well.  
> I hope you enjoyed, and don't forget to leave kudos or even a comment! What are writers without their readers, after all?
> 
> ElenCelebrindal


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